


There's No Control Over Me

by junes_discotheque



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bad Ideas, Collars, Dom/sub, Leashes, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Spanking, Training, this is not remotely healthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford hires Hannibal to be Will's public Dom and give him the security and stability his wildly unbalanced empath needs. This is pretty much a terrible idea from the start. (BDSM AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Control Over Me

Will isn't sure when he became aware of his orientation. Moving around didn't exactly give him a stable environment in which to figure it out. But he can remember, his freshman year of high school, Lauren Kelly with her tall heels and her sharp nails shoving him against the lockers and kissing him until his knees buckled and his mind faded. He can also remember what happened after that, Lauren's friends laughing at him on his knees, his mouth red and bruised, his hands folded behind him like he wanted them to be restrained.

He'd begged her, he thinks.

One of her friends gave him a bruise on his jaw and linked her arm through Lauren's and informed him Lauren _had_ a sub and no one would want his untrained ass anyway. Lauren had looked sorry when she walked away. It didn't mean anything then and it still doesn't. He still hears her friend's words in his mind every time he thinks about maybe finding someone to kneel beside.

It doesn't really matter if he'd known before then or not. He was bullied for a few months, because he was small and awkward and easy, and then they moved. During those months, though, he picked up everything he could from the Doms who pushed him around. And when he started at his new school, he was able to pass himself off as the consummate Dom.

He doesn't bother so much now, and for the most part, he's pretty sure his students think he's a switch. Maybe even non-dynamic. It doesn't make much difference. He lectures, they take exams, and if there are whispers, he doesn't hear them.

~ * ~

Jack Crawford knows. 

He's not the first to figure out the truth, but he _is_ the first to do something about it. Oh, he lets Will get away with pretending he's not a sub for a little while. Crawford is big on equality and doesn't think subs can't work in the field just because they're subs. But then Garrett Jacob Hobbs happens. And there's no way—absolutely no way—that Crawford's just going to let that go. So it isn't much of a surprise when Will's sent to Dr. Lecter for a psychological evaluation.

After all, Dr. Lecter was the one who could smell sub on Will before he even had a chance to speak. Crawford tries to reassure Will that it isn't about being Dom or sub. It's about making sure Will can cope with shooting Hobbs. He keeps looking at Will's bare neck, though, and Will knows he's lying.

~ * ~

Dr. Lecter asks Will a lot of uncomfortably invasive questions. He manages to skate around the issue of Will's orientation, but Will knows it's coming, and then—yep. “Tell me, Will, have you ever been collared?”

The answer is no, of course. He's never even had a casual Dom. It's not worth the risk, and Will doesn't trust easily.

“Perhaps that's what you need,” Dr. Lecter says.

“I'm not going to let Jack whore me out when I'm not working,” Will counters.

Dr. Lecter makes the recommendation anyway. 

~ * ~

He should have known.

From the second Jack Crawford made him talk to Dr. Lecter, Will should have known this was coming. He's kicking himself for not realizing it, and kicking himself more for being blindsided enough that he agreed so thoughtlessly.

At least Dr. Lecter looks as uncomfortable as he feels, though it isn't much of a relief.

Crawford gives them three days. Three days for Will to get to know his new Dom. 

“It's only in public, Will,” Crawford explains. “I can't have an unstable, uncollared sub running around crime scenes untethered. And yes, I mean that literally.”

Three days aren't nearly enough. Will is untrained. He's never felt a collar circling his throat or the tug of a leash at his neck. He cannot imagine that he can do his job under such restrictions. 

After they're dismissed, Dr. Lecter suggests they go to his office. It's a more neutral location than either of their houses, and he doesn't want the pressure of Dr. Lecter's home or the invasion of Will's to sour their relationship.

Will bristles at the word _relationship_ , but he agrees.

~ * ~

The doctor removes his paisley tie and uses it to bind Will's hands behind his back. He has Will kneel in the middle of the office, facing his desk, where he sits and begins to fill out forms. At first, Will is frustrated; he knows he's untrained and he's a virgin and he can't possibly be of any use to Dr. Lecter, but... well, he's not unattractive, and Jack all but sold him to the doctor. It's a little insulting.

But he realizes quickly that he's far more relieved. Dr. Lecter intends to keep their arrangement professional—or at least as professional as possible, given the circumstances. It's better than he expected. He's known plenty of Doms who would use the opportunity to sate their more unacceptable desires.

As he kneels, he feels his mind slowly drift. Like a bobble floating on the waves, though he keeps a tight hold on the line. The air hangs heavy in Dr. Lecter's office. It covers him like a blanket. The scratching of the doctor's pen is rhythmical and soothing.

Finally, Dr. Lecter puts his pen down.

“What's on your mind, Will?” His thick accent raises goosebumps on Will's arms.

“Nothing, Dr. Lecter, sir,” he mumbles. The doctor makes a noise with his tongue like he's done something wrong, and Will winces.

“Please call me Hannibal,” he says. 

“Even in front of Jack?”

“I suppose you'll have to call me 'sir' in public,” Hannibal says. He has a hint of a smile. It's not much, but there's a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes and Will feels himself relax.

“How do—” The words catch in Will's throat and he swallows, embarrassed. “I mean, how are we—”

Hannibal walks over to stand in front of Will. He rests a hand on Will's head and runs his fingers through the messy curls. “I look after you,” he says. He sounds surprised. “I remain by your side as you work, and when the weight of it is too much, I take the burden for you.”

Will shakes his head. “Take me down, you mean.” 

“Do not tell me what I mean, Will,” Hannibal says sternly. Will struggles to repress a shudder. He hasn't fallen at a Dom's feet since Lauren Kelly brought him to his knees with a kiss. And now he's _responding_ to Hannibal's voice. He knows what it means when a Dom uses that voice. To do anything but lower his head and defer quietly would show a remarkable lack of self-preservation.

So, of course, he mouths off. “And what will you do about it?”

For a split second, Hannibal looks furious. Will doesn't wince, but his backside still throbs with phantom ache. Anticipation for what Hannibal might do, perhaps, though he can't tell if it's negative or positive. But the moment passes as quickly as it arrived and Hannibal just looks concerned. 

“Nothing,” he says. “I have no right to do anything to you when we are alone.” He removes his hand from Will's head and tucks it into his pocket. “When we are in the field it will be another matter.”

“Can't we just pretend?” Will knows he sounds desperate, and he hates himself for it. 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “If that is what you want. I had hoped that having you kneel might relax you, but now I wonder if I had been mistaken. You may use your safeword if you wish, and spend the next three days at home, and I will not argue. I find this arrangement distasteful, Will. If I were to have you, I'd prefer it to be on your own terms.”

“No, I—” Will struggles to find the words. It shouldn't get to him. Crawford is paying Hannibal to put Will on a leash while he's working. That was the agreement. Will doesn't have a choice in the matter, and the last thing he should want is for Hannibal to take an _interest_ in Will when they're alone. But he allowed Hannibal to put him on his knees and tie his hands and the thought of Hannibal caring for him... It feels nice. And also terrifying. “It's okay. I mean.” He swallows. “I don't have any experience. And I'd hate for word to get around that Dr. Hannibal Lecter has a sub who can't submit.”

“Do you want me to train you?”

His wrists strain against the paisley tie. His knees ache. He can't look Hannibal in the eyes, but he can feel Hannibal's gaze on the back of his neck anyway. He nods.

~ * ~

Will's not sure what he expected when he asked Hannibal to train him. A vague image of whips and chains and barking orders and punishments when he fails, perhaps, which also begs the question—why did he ask for it in the first place? And what brings him to stand at the door to Hannibal's office, fully prepared for whatever the doctor has in store? What makes him so unafraid?

He doesn't like what it might say about him, and so he pushes it out of his mind.

Hannibal has cleared his entire afternoon. He wears a blue-green plaid suit with a brick red shirt and a warm brown and gold paisley tie. He looks no different than he ever does, and Will wonders what he expected—leather, perhaps? He lets out a little laugh at the mental image.

“What is it?” Hannibal asks. Will swallows.

“Nothing, just—You look normal. It's strange.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don't know,” Will says. He shrugs. “Like I said, I've never...”

Hannibal rests his hands on Will's shoulders. They are large, warm and heavy, and Will finds himself wanting to sink to his knees. But Hannibal is just holding him, he realizes, and so he doesn't. “I don't know what horror stories you've been reading, but I assure you, that won't happen.”

Will chuckles nervously and rubs the back of his neck. “I probably should have asked what you meant about _training_ before I agreed.”

“Yes, you should have,” Hannibal says. “But it is no matter. I simply wish to do as you asked. I assume you observe subs regularly?”

“I don't, actually,” Will says. Hannibal looks surprised. “I've—I always worry that if I look at subs for too long, I'll forget how to act like a Dom. So I watch them more. I don't. I know I'll be on a leash, but beyond that...” 

“How do you feel about being on a leash, Will?”

Will shrugs. “Nervous, I guess? I mean. Being trapped. I don't like that very much.”

“I can buy a breakaway,” Hannibal says. “One touch at the back of your neck, and your collar will come undone.”

“I want to trust you.”

“Trust comes in stages, Will. You trusted me to tie your hands last night.”

“The knot wasn't tight. I could have slipped it.”

Hannibal does smile then. “And if it hadn't been?”

“Then we would have had a problem.” He doesn't tell Hannibal about the knife he keeps in his back pocket. If the knot had been too tight he could have cut the tie and made his escape. He shifts a little on his heels now, feeling the knife shift against him.

“I won't tie you tonight. I want you to learn to follow my commands of your own accord.” Will nods, jerkily, and Hannibal continues. “We start from scratch. Kneel.”

He does. Hannibal looks at him with the blank, unreadable expression he used during his therapy sessions.

“Did that hurt your knees?”

Will nods. 

“You are landing too hard. Going down too fast.” He holds out a hand and helps Will stand. “I want you to try it again. This time, don't let gravity do all the work.”

He tries it again. He feels awkward and clumsy, like he has too many limbs and he doesn't quite know what to do with them. He keeps his head turned towards Hannibal and sees him nod.

“Better. Fold your hands behind your back. Lower your head. Do not look up until you are told.”

“I don't think that will be a problem,” Will says, grimacing. The thought of trying to make eye contact while he's on his knees is—he doesn't know what. It makes him feel a little sick. “Will you make me kneel a lot?”

“Not likely,” Hannibal says. “There may be some cases in which I feel it is necessary—if you are becoming too overwhelmed, I may take you aside and have you kneel. Or if we find ourselves working with a particularly rude believer in Dominant superiority. In those cases, I will snap my fingers by my leg, and you will kneel.” He gives Will another one of those faint quarter-smiles, and Will shivers. He pictures standing next to Hannibal, and the sound of Hannibal's fingers snapping loud above the din of voices, and himself landing on his knees at Hannibal's feet.

“I already know to use respectful address,” he says, desperately trying to change the subject. “Must I wait to be spoken to?”

Hannibal drops the smile. “Whenever possible. If you have a theory, however, voice it.”

“What if I forget?”

“Then I will apologize and assure anyone who is offended that you will be justly punished, and then promptly not do so.”

“What if I want you to?” The second Will says it, he knows it's a mistake. Yeah, he's always sort of craved being taken in hand, punished so that he might forget all the times he's messed up, but he never meant to voice it. Never meant to want it, either. But he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since Hannibal tied his wrists.

“Then that is something we can discuss,” Hannibal says. No one else would notice, Will thinks, but Hannibal looks a little shaken. “But not now. Stand up, Will. You'll need to practice walking on a lead.”

~ * ~

The man is nearing seven feet tall, stocky, with gray-brown hair and blue eyes. Or rather, he _was_ , before being gutted and castrated. Blood pools around his body and seeps into the rich carpet of his upscale Manhattan office. He's the fifth man to be found like this. His secretary, a pretty redheaded sub, sits in the lobby and trembles. Will thinks maybe he should offer him a tissue, but Hannibal's grip on his leash gives him no room to do anything but follow obediently.

Crawford's standing near the window speaking with the victim's boss in hushed tones. He looks up when they walk in.

“Good, you're here,” he says. “Mr. Lane is the vice president overseeing this department. Mr. Lane, this is Will Graham, my consultant, and Dr. Lecter, his Dom.”

Mr. Lane shakes Hannibal's hand. Will offers his, but Lane ignores it. Will clears his throat insistently.

“Mr. Lane,” Hannibal says. He tosses Will a half-smile. “I cannot abide rudeness.”

“My apologies,” Lane says, sarcastic, and Will lets his hand drop. He bristles with indignation and frustration and the collar at his neck is tight and itching.

They watch from the doorway. He closes his eyes and tries to _picture_ the scene, how the victim might have stood from his desk and walked to the door, only to be castrated and then gutted. Or gutted and then castrated? He cannot see the knife. He cannot see the killer. He can only see the ugly beige wallpaper and a slash of red, and he is choking.

Without thinking, he reaches up and presses against the base of his neck. The collar falls. Will can see.

~ * ~

Lane is furious. 

Crawford tries to calm him down. It does nothing. Will's ears are ringing with panic and Hannibal is just smiling, touching the back of Will's neck where the collar's release had been. He hasn't put it back on. Will doesn't know if he's grateful or adrift.

“Do you have what you need, Agent Crawford?” Hannibal asks, when Lane stops to take a breath. Crawford nods. “Then Will and I are leaving.”

“Be sure to get your sub a proper collar,” Lane says. “I'll tell you, the weak-ass Doms I've had to deal with. That one in there--” he gestures to their victim-- “I must've seen his sub come in a million times. Dinky little collar and smiling at everyone. Disgraceful.”

“My sub is my business,” Hannibal says, in that voice that makes Will want to drop to his knees and run his tongue across the top of Hannibal's shoes. He feels a little dizzy. Hannibal's arm is warm around his waist. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

~ * ~

Their hotel room has two queen beds. Will takes one. Hannibal takes the other. When he's sure Hannibal is asleep, Will finds the collar in the dresser and wraps it around his throat.

He sleeps soundly. 

~ * ~

“Talk to me, Will.”

He's wearing the collar. It—helps, having it. Though it's a distraction when he's trying to work, it's a welcome comfort when they're alone. He's sitting in the chair opposite Hannibal, and he doesn't miss the attempt to place them as equals. Even though he knows they're not. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“How do you feel about the arrangement?”

“Like it's backwards,” Will says. “Like if—if it were up to me, you'd have me in here, when we're alone, but the outside world would have no idea.”

Hannibal leans forward. “You wish to hide.”

“Maybe, I don't know.”

“You said, before, that you wanted me to punish you. Tell me about that.”

Will takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I don't know what I want,” he says, so quietly he's surprised when Hannibal nods like he heard. “This isn't me.”

“You're wrong, Will. This is you without the masks, without the walls, without the shields you put up to keep out the dark minds you visit daily. It's a good thing.”

“It scares me.”

“That is to be expected,” Hannibal says. “As your Dom, I am obligated to make you feel safe, but as your psychiatrist, I know that is something that must come with time.”

“Obligated by a check with Crawford's signature.”

“No.” His fingers twitch on the armrests of the chair, restless, furious but trying to control himself. Will ducks his head and tries not to think about what it might be like to face the full unrestrained force of Hannibal's anger. “Jack Crawford is non-dynamic, did you know that? He cannot understand the relationship between a Dom and a sub, and while I think it is terrible for me to be both your Dom and your therapist, I would not trust anyone else in either role.”

Will swallows hard. “I don't want you to fuck me,” he says. “But maybe... maybe you could help me?” 

It isn't until Hannibal's hands are on his shoulders that Will realizes he's trembling.

“If that is what you need, dear Will, I will oblige.”

~ * ~

He comes over his hand and his stomach and Hannibal's deep red silk sheets. Hannibal massages his trembling thighs and tells him how beautiful he is, how good, how perfectly he followed Hannibal's direction. Will fades in and out while Hannibal cleans him and tucks him under the covers and slides in behind him, wrapping his arms and legs around Will protectively.

Possessively.

Hannibal's lips brush over Will's ear and he murmurs something that might be _I love you_ and might be Will's brain playing tricks on him.

~ * ~

“It's not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

Will knows the second he says it that it's going to come back to bite him. His collar presses at the hollow of his throat, where he'd nearly forgotten about it, and he can feel Hannibal's gaze bearing down on him. The tug at his leash is no surprise after that, nor is the fact that Hannibal doesn't remove it once they're alone. But he's smiling, sort of, a pleased little smirk that baffles him.

Crawford's furious, of course, though he seems to be more furious with Hannibal than with Will, and Will feels almost protective towards his Dom.

(His Dom. When did that happen?)

But Hannibal just keeps smiling, even as Will shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He misses most of the rest of the discussion, but very clearly hears Crawford make Hannibal promise to punish him.

~ * ~

Crawford will know if Hannibal doesn't punish him. 

At least, that's what Will tells himself as he kicks his pants to the side and bends over Hannibal's desk without a single word from either of them. Crawford will know. 

It's easier to admit what he wants when the choice is taken away from him.

To his undying relief, Hannibal doesn't say a word either as he steps behind Will. As he lands a half dozen quick, smarting blows on the curve of Will's ass, then waits for Will to catch his breath before continuing.

Hannibal is harsh and unrelenting, the blistering pace of the hand reddening his backside at odds with the one drawing soothing circles on Will's back and keeping him still. He's lost count of how many times Hannibal has struck him, the swats melding into one bright, throbbing center that seems to lift Will off the desk and up into the mezzanine.

He feels his body grow stiff, and it takes a long moment for him to realize he's coming, hard, against the elegant polished wood of Hannibal's desk. He actually does feel himself lifted, then, and carried, and placed on his stomach on Hannibal's blue sofa. 

Gentle fingers massage a cooling cream into what Will is sure will be dark bruises come morning.

“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asks, and he's so close, Will doesn't think before turning his head and capturing Hannibal's lips with his own. The kiss is brutal, teeth and blood, and Will wants more, wants _everything_ , wants Hannibal to put him on his knees and tie him with ropes and take anything he wants.

He's shaking again.

“Sleep, my dear Will,” Hannibal says, and drapes his jacket over Will's torso. His legs and backside remain bare.

~ * ~

In the morning, Hannibal gifts Will with an elegant silver collar. It has no release in the back, and it locks on with a tiny padlock, and there's a large sapphire-encrusted tag with Hannibal's name.

He also shows Will a knife he purchased. It's small and sleek and sharp and Will cuts his finger when he tries to touch it. Hannibal immediately takes the finger between his lips and asks, with a small smirk, _“Do you trust me?”_


End file.
